Lieutenant of the Line

by Philip McCutchan

  They were now well ahead of Ogilvie’s reinforced patrol.

  Black, as usual, nagged continually. It was not in his nature to overlook the smallest detail, even under the exigencies of a forced march through hostile and difficult country, and he was constantly urging on Ogilvie the importance of smartening up the men. Ogilvie’s reasoned protests only worsened Black’s temper, and in the men’s own interests Ogilvie was forced to concede to the adjutant and chivvy them along. The men understood, though they grumbled enough as they set one weary, aching foot down after another; Black was detested throughout the regiment for his unfair treatment of the rank and file, his unnecessary harrying of the subalterns, and his murderous ill-will the morning after a drinking bout—not an uncommon occurrence under normal conditions.

  Ogilvie was convinced that, in point of fact, he was drinking now. During the halts when the men fell out for a rest Black would call for his servant, ferret in the pack which the man brought, bring out something wrapped in a towel and retire behind a rock. Unlike Barr, who was still smelling from time to time of his illegally-bottled rum, the adjutant’s breath held no evidence of drink, but his general demeanour did. His face was flushed and heavy and the good temper that followed upon each wayside halt evaporated quickly as the day’s ferocious heat drew out the liquor in sweat and left the uncomfortable dregs behind to plague the man.

  As they marched or rode along, with the pipes and drums mostly silent now, with scouts posted ahead as they went on through the narrow, sun-dried defiles towards Abazai, Ogilvie had time to talk to his cousin. Hector was in a thoroughly depressed and nervy mood; he saw danger in every small sound, and danger again in the very silence of the halts. Ogilvie did his best to take his cousin’s mind off his bleak surroundings; and because he was intensely concerned about the answer, he probed for some information as to how things had been in Simla in regard to Mary Archdale. He asked as casually as he could, ‘do you know if mother’s met Mrs. Archdale?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Hector answered. ‘I—er—I understand she went round to the Archdales’ bungalow soon after your recall came through.’

  ‘And?’

  Hector shrugged behind Ogilvie’s back. ‘If you want to know what she thought of the lady, you must ask someone else, for I don’t know.’

  Ogilvie ran a finger around the inside of his sweat-damp collar. ‘No ideas on the subject at all?’

  ‘You know as well as I do, Aunt Fiona has never worn her heart on her sleeve. Besides, dear boy, if I may remind you, you told me quite plainly it was no business of mine.’

  ‘True, but—’

  ‘So it doesn’t become you to question me now.’ Hector sounded smug. A moment later, however, he clutched tightly at his cousin and said in a high, scared voice, ‘what’s that—ahead at the side of the track?’

  Ogilvie looked. ‘A body.’ He had noticed the busy vultures some way back, rising hastily because the pipes and drums, starting up just then, had frightened them away from their meal. The corpse, a native one, was now half eaten.

  Hector said, ‘oh, my God.’

  ‘You’ll get used to that.’ They rode by. What was left of the corpse was filled with a seething mass of wriggling white maggots, smooth and cheesy-looking, and there was a foul stench; Hector gave a sound of retching.

  ‘Hold it,’ Ogilvie said, thinking of his uniform.

  Hector was shaking. He said with loathing in his voice, ‘I suppose they’d do that to us as well.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The vultures.’

  ‘I suppose they would,’ Ogilvie said irritably. ‘I doubt if they realize the essential difference between the local banditry and the rulers of British India. They might baulk at a civilian, though. I wouldn’t worry too much, Hector. You can always send them a Note, or whatever it is you do in Whitehall.’

  ‘Don’t be such an ass,’ Hector snapped back. Ogilvie’s thoughts returned to Mary; he realized now that he had hardly had her in his mind at all since the day he and his patrol had marched away from Peshawar. He didn’t know what this might mean, whether it indicated that deep down he was looking upon her as no more than a bird of passage, or whether it meant simply that he had his priorities in order. He had to be a soldier first—that had always been instilled into him, and he didn’t dispute that he knew to be a fact. In a sense he had been a Royal Strathspey from birth and even now, even in this terrible dry dust that seemed to creep insidiously into every part of his body, he could still feel the surge of pride run through his veins as the pipes and drums beat along the track, could still feel the deep emotions aroused by race and regiment. And in a situation such as they had been in, such indeed as they were still in and would continue to be in until stability had been restored, temporarily at any rate, along the Frontier, he had no business to allow his mind to be distracted from his military responsibilities. But, now that Hector had turned up, having been so recently in Simla and thus within Mary’s ambit, he found his mind once again divided. His thoughts roamed towards the husband Mary didn’t love, that elderly major who was riding somewhere in the main column of the grand advance ahead, fussing around Major-General Francis Fettleworth and very probably getting his field lavatory all tangled up with the commissariat...

  That night, when they halted for a few brief hours’ sleep, well-guarded on the perimeter of the makeshift bivouacs by watchful sentries, Ogilvie was taking his turn as officer of the guard when he was approached by Andrew Black, whom he heard come stumbling out from the eerie shadows cast by the high peaks against the moon.

  ‘A word in your ear, Mr. Ogilvie,’ the adjutant said with much formality.

  ‘As you wish, Sir.’ Ogilvie sniffed; this time Black’s breath did smell—of whisky, and very strong. The man’s movements were a trifle stiff too, though his speech seemed unaffected, and he was wearing khaki drill though the night air and a chill wind had been enough to make Ogilvie put on a blue patrol jacket; the whisky was keeping Andrew Black warm perhaps. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘That damn deserter—Makepeace. Sergeant he calls himself, you say. Well, I’ve been thinking. I’ve reached certain conclusions.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You may well say ‘oh’, Mr. Ogilvie. You’re responsible for his presence.’

  ‘On the contrary. Sergeant Makepeace is responsible for his own presence.’ Ogilvie shivered slightly in that cold wind coming down from the distant peaks of the Hindu Kush. ‘His action in joining us—in re-joining the service—was entirely voluntary. And I would point out, with respect, Sir, that he is no deserter.’

  ‘So you’ve said before.’ Black’s voice was heavy with anger now. ‘I’m tired of hearing you try to vindicate him. In my opinion it’s a thoroughly bad example to the men.’

  ‘Keeping him in handcuffs is, yes.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, Mr. Ogilvie. You know well that I was referring to no such thing. My action in regard to the handcuffing was and is perfectly proper and I do not intend to have it called into question, or even commented upon, by a subaltern—which you still are, Mr. Ogilvie, I’ll have you remember!’ Black breathed heavily and more whisky came across to Ogilvie. ‘I say that man’s a damn disgrace and—’

  ‘Would you,’ Ogilvie interrupted coolly, ‘see your wife and children tortured, and yourself flogged repeatedly and still be of the same opinion?’

  ‘Whatever the provocation, there is no excuse for firing upon your own comrades in arms, Mr. Ogilvie. I am highly astonished that any officer should hold any different view from that. One who does, Mr. Ogilvie, is not worthy to hold the Queen’s Commission—or to be a Royal Strathspey. I trust you will keep that well in mind.’

  Ogilvie stood silent; Black, of course, was only too right within the letter and the spirit of Queen’s Regulations and the Army Act. It couldn’t be denied—except on the grounds of humanity. Yet even on those grounds, once the principle itself was breached, there was no knowing how far things might drift. The logical conclusi
ons might well be that whole regiments would refuse their orders, that men might stream from the enemy. The discipline had to be iron hard, the men had to be treated as mere receptacles for orders, machines that fought and died on an officer’s or N.C.O.’s word of command. It was unpleasant but it was true. In current conditions you couldn’t have an army under any other terms. It came down to the well-established fact that the men must be a damn sight more scared of their own colonel than of the enemy, for then there would be no question of disobedience or of cowardice in action. And captives like old Makepeace must stand and watch the horrible things that were done to their defenceless families, and turn the other cheek to their own tortures, and watch the British regiments march by. They must never aid the enemy. When Sergeant Makepeace returned in handcuffs to Peshawar, he would very likely receive the death penalty. After all, Corporal Nichol’s crime had been far less heinous in a sense. The hanging came back vividly to Ogilvie and he felt shivers run up and down his spine, this time not from the wind off the distant northern snow.

  Meanwhile Black was speaking. ‘So the man must be made an example of, Mr. Ogilvie. It is not good for the men to see him being treated almost as one of themselves, given the same food, the same water, wearing a sergeant’s stripes—’

  ‘You can’t remove them,’ Ogilvie said. ‘Only the Colonel can do that, Captain Black, and then only—’

  ‘On the contrary, on detached service I am in the room of the Colonel, Mr. Ogilvie. I can do precisely as I wish. Precisely—d’you hear—as I wish!’ He rasped a hand across his moustache, as if to brush away the fumes of drink. ‘And now I shall tell you what I wish, Mr. Ogilvie.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘As I have said...the man must be made an example of, and in public—before the men, who will be left in no uncertainty as to what happens to deserters.’ Black took a deep breath. ‘My decision is that before the march is resumed, Makepeace will be flogged. He will receive one hundred and fifty lashes, Mr. Ogilvie, and Colour-Sergeant Barr will administer them.’

  Ogilvie, utterly amazed, laughed in the adjustant’s face. ‘You must be mad,’ he snorted. ‘Why, flogging’s been abolished in the army, Andrew, you can’t—’

  ‘Kindly do not teach me the regulations, Mr. Ogilvie. Flogging may have been abolished; what has not been abolished, to my certain knowledge, is the absolute prerogative of an officer in command of troops to discipline his men in the way he thinks fit. I shall be well able to justify my action to the Colonel, Mr. Ogilvie, and to anybody else too, on the ground that in current circumstances, the circumstances of war, I considered it a right a proper thing to do in order to keep the men up to the mark. You will kindly see that the preparations for the flogging are made.’

  Black started to turn away; Ogilvie reached out, took his shoulder and swung him round. In the moonlight Black’s face was devilish. ‘What does this mean?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘It means I’m refusing the order, Andrew.’ Ogilvie’s voice was almost pleading. ‘Don’t you see? It’s an illegal order and whatever you say you can’t justify it. You’ll wreck your career. I refuse to be implicated!’

  ‘Except by way of mutiny, Mr. Ogilvie? You realize the penalties for mutiny, of course?’

  ‘This is not mutiny, Andrew, it is sanity. If you think for a little longer, you’ll see it that way too. If you have that flogging carried out, you’ll be cashiered.’ His voice hardened now, passionately. ‘Not that that would bother me in the very least. What does worry me is Makepeace. He is not going to be flogged. Why, damn it to hell, man, if you stop to think you’ll realize there isn’t even a cat-o’-nine-tails outside a museum to carry it out with!’

  Black seemed to be on the verge of a fit; his breath was coming in jerks and he was shaking all over. The moon’s light showed the deep, bitter lines cutting into his bleak face. Thickly he said, ‘Mr. Ogilvie. You will consider yourself under arrest.’

  Ogilvie shook his head. ‘Oh no, I won’t,’ he said. ‘The boot’s only too likely to fit the other foot far better! There will be no flogging as far as I am concerned. If you persist in your attitude I shall order your own Colour-Sarn’t to place you in arrest, and I shall take over the command of the detachment on the grounds that in my opinion you are drunk—drunk on active service—embittered by sheer temper, and in no fit state mentally to command even your own servant. And you know as well as I do that with the exception possibly of Colour-Sarn’t Barr, I shall have every man on my side.’

  ‘You—you—’ The adjutant struggled, gasping, for words.

  Ogilvie said, quietly now, ‘if I were you I wouldn’t say any more, Andrew. Don’t make it any worse. You know I’m right, and would be acting within my rights. I mean every word I’ve said. But if you go to sleep now and forget all this—well, I’ll forget it too. Nothing will be said in Peshawar. It’s your choice, Andrew.’

  Black stood for a moment, his arms waving stupidly; then, without another word, he turned and went off. When the adjutant had gone, Ogilvie turned away also and some dozen paces in rear found MacInnes, Colour-Sergeant of Black’s half-company. Abruptly he asked, ‘Did you hear all that?’

  ‘Aye, Sir, every word. I couldna help it, first off. Then I remained, in case you wanted a witness later. It’s always advisable to have that, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Colour-Sarn’t. But now I’ll be obliged if you’ll forget it.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Sir. And see to it as well that the men do, any that happened to hear.’

  ‘Thank you again.’ Ogilvie hesitated. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me...whether you think I was right, or not?’

  He saw the gleam of MacInnes’s teeth in the moonlight. The N.C.O. said, ‘Dead right, Sir, without any doubt at all.’

  Ogilvie nodded and continued on his rounds of the perimeter; after three hours, the sergeant of the guard and the sentries were relieved; no relief came for Ogilvie. Black was sleeping it off, or was simply in a savage mood. When the march was resumed, Ogilvie had had no sleep at all. Black kept well clear of him; but there was no more talk of a flogging.

  There was, however, an aftermath that greatly saddened Ogilvie. At the first brief halt that day, he walked along the line of men, having a word here and there, keeping their spirits up as they penetrated farther into the unknown tribal lands north of Abazai and as he reached the end Sergeant Makepeace, still handcuffed, tried to scramble to his feet, assisted by his escort.

  Ogilvie said, ‘sit down, Sergeant. This is a rest period.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Permission to speak, Sir?’

  ‘Of course. And there’s no need to stand up for it,’ Ogilvie said, smiling down at the old warrior. ‘Look, I’ll sit beside you.’ He squatted on the dust of the track, and signalled the escort to withdraw. He saw tears once again in Makepeace’s watery eyes. Encouragingly he asked, ‘what is it, Sarn’t?’

  ‘You’re very kind, Sir. A real gentleman, the finest I ever met, Sir. They tell me your father is Lieutenant-General Sir Iain Ogilvie, Sir. I served under him when he was a young Staff Captain attached to the 1st Infantry Brigade, outside Kandahar. A true gentleman, Sir, and admired by all the men. A gentleman with a temper, Sir, but always fair and just. It’s in the blood, I dare say. But it is not of your father I wish to speak, Sir. It is of myself, and you.’

  ‘Me, Sarn’t?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. You see, Sir. I was told, I shall not say by whom, of what took place last night. I thank you, Sir, from the bottom of my heart. But I do not wish you to suffer on my account Sir. I am an old man and have few years left to me, and besides, my family is long since gone. I have no wish to live on, Sir, without them. Now you, Sir, are a young officer with his full career before him. You must not incur the displeasure of your senior officers, Sir. This can be fatal, as you must see.’

  ‘You mustn’t worry, Sarn’t, I can look after myself! I’m damned if I’m going to stand by and see injustice done.’

  ‘It does you great credit, Sir. But foolhardiness do
es not. I ask you to have a care for the future.’ He paused moving his body uncomfortably on the hard, barren ground. ‘I ask something else of you, Sir, a favour.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘All I have left, Sir, is the hope of undoing some part of what I have done.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘I mean, Sir, that I wish to fight the enemy when we reach Fort Gazai. I have scores to settle, Sir, above all with the young rat Shuja Khan of whom I have already spoken. And I can still lay a gun, Sir. I am still an artilleryman, and I guarantee I have not lost my skill. But I cannot fight with my hands held as they are now, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can for you, Sarn’t.’

  ‘God bless you, Sir. There’s one thing I must add, since I do not wish to deceive you. Once the handcuffs are off my wrists...Sir, I shall fight before Fort Gazai and fight as well as may be for the women and children, but I shall not wish to return to Peshawar. If God is kind, He will allow me to kill many of the enemy, and then He will allow the enemy to kill me. If He is not so kind...’ He shrugged his thin shoulders, on which his tunic hung like a rag. ‘I have no doubt you understand me, Sir.’

  Gently Ogilvie said, ‘I think I do, Sarn’t.’ There was a lump in his throat as he pressed the old soldier’s arm and got to his feet, and marched away up the line towards Black and his cousin.

  ***

  ‘Where’s Archdale?’ General Fettleworth demanded. He was standing in his stirrups, a thick, portly figure looking out through field-glasses over the entry to the Malakand Pass, staring at that hostile place with worry nagging at his mind and that nervous, horse-like grin baring his teeth. All was oddly—most oddly—peaceful, yet the pass looked the most appalling place for anybody of men to force—if force it they had to, which most assuredly they would, for the peaceful state could not possibly last. When General Low had gone through, the trouble had been chiefly in Chitral city itself ; not right along the Frontier. Expecting trouble, Fettleworth was worried chiefly because it had not so far manifested itself.